


Liaison

by storiesfortravellers



Category: White Collar
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Banter, France (Country), M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Roughhousing, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:37:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter/Neal. AU set in Eighteenth Century France.  Summary: Peter/Neal. AU set in Eighteenth Century France. Peter is new to Paris, and Neal soon becomes his friend. But is there an ulterior motive? Schemes, gossip, sexual tension, a trip to the country, and other semi-historically accurate fun.  </p><p>A loose fusion with both Dangerous Liaisons and the film Ridicule. Includes sex and light kink, trust issues, secret plots, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liaison

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wcpairings exchange for coffeethyme4me for this prompt:Historical AU with lots of UST and then smut
> 
> Beta credit goes to the wonderful Ash.
> 
>  
> 
> Names used in the fic:  
> Neal = Nicolas Haldon  
> Peter = Pierre de Burceau  
> June = Duchesse d’Ellineville: in this AU, she is one of Peter’s aunts

“Would you like to try the Capezzoli di Venere?” the young gentleman said, offering a sweet from his own plate to Pierre de Burceau. The man had dark hair, alert blue eyes, and, like most of the attendees of the salon, was dressed in the very latest fashions.

Still, the confection looked tempting to Monsieur de Burceau, and the man seemed friendly enough, and so he accepted the offer with his thanks. 

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the gentleman said, “Nicolas Haldon.”

“Pierre de Burceau.”

“I hear you are new to the city, Monsieur de Burceau. Fresh produce from the country, if you will. Congratulations on your many successes. It is not often that one becomes known as the pinnacle of honor and the defender of the innocent in such a short time.”

The man smiled a bit wanly. “I have been in Paris for nearly two months. But I admit, I am still growing accustomed to meeting people who know far more about me than I know about them, especially since so much of it is gross exaggeration.”

Monsieur Haldon gave a sympathetic nod. “Gossip shines brighter than gold to some people. Especially in the salons.”

“You seem to negotiate the salons quite well,” de Burceau said. “Your poem was quite impressive, especially since you composed it off the top of your head.”

Haldon gave a dismissive wave. “You’ll see soon enough, all that transpires in a salon is dust and ribbon. We prepare our poems at home and then pretend to invent them on the spot. It’s no great feat, I can assure you. Many of us even offer bribes to ensure that we are challenged to ‘spontaneously compose’ a poem on the very topic we have prepared.”

“Oh?” he asked with a raised brow.

“The salon is a tricky place, Monsieur de Burceau. You must not think of them as in the old days; they are no longer fountains of intellect -- they are now merely the battlefields of high society. But I would be happy to provide any information that might help you to negotiate these treacherous fields. This is not to say that you should need any assistance. After all, you are praised throughout the city despite your, shall we say, tepid response to some of our more scandalous amusements.”

“You mean when the brightest minds are encouraged to invent the cruelest words possible for the sake of entertainment,” de Burceau stated, his voice free of any irony that would lessen the judgment in his voice. It was astonishing that de Burceau was as popular as he was; a cutting remark – a comment both witty and truly damaging to a man’s standing – was the currency and weapon of choice in the salons. 

“Ah,” Haldon said with an amused look, “So you were not truly impressed with my poem.”

De Burceau gave an apologetic smile. “I was complimenting the inventiveness of the words, not the viciousness of the attack.” 

“One does not take prisoners in a battle of wits,” Haldon countered, and for some reason de Burceau felt he should take note of Haldon’s expression, the brief flash of coldness beneath the easy smile.

“And I must admit, if anyone deserves your vitriol, it is Monsieur de Ruis,” de Burceau grumbled.

Haldon grinned. “Ahh, so the most upright gentleman of Paris is not a statue. He has warm blood coursing through him after all.”

De Burceau raised an eyebrow. “I am sure that I am not the most upright gentleman in Paris.”

“But your reputation says that you are. And you will find, Monsieur, that in the city, your reputation means far, far more than such trivial matters as the truth.”

De Burceau rolled his eyes, his frustration now in the open. “Ridiculous. A man has more important concerns than his reputation.”

“Not if he wants to survive the Parisian salons. Or the opera, the courts, or anyone where else a gentleman needs to prevail. Our great civilization is built on lies and secrets, and a voice in the wilderness, so to speak, will do little to change it.” 

Burceau sighed. He knew it was the truth – in Paris, the whispers of malicious rumormongers ruled over all. But it was an annoyance to him, and an affront to his sense of virtue. 

“I admit, I am still growing accustomed to Paris and its… complexities.”

“An impossibly tactful response,” Haldon laughed, “You may survive the city yet. But please, come to call at my residence if you would ever like a few rumors that may be to your advantage. One must always be prepared.” He handed the other man his card.

De Burceau accepted it. “A generous offer, and I thank you for it. Even as I wonder what has inspired such generosity,” he said, with amused curiosity more than suspicion.

“Let us just say that although I am personally not interested in being a man of virtue, I find yours to be … aesthetically pleasing. You wear it well,” Haldon said with a wide, bright smile.

Du Burceau briefly wondered how many Parisians had been ruined by that smile. But he replied, “I’m glad to know you find my sense of honor so entertaining. I know that one gets bored so easily this time of year, and I imagine a man like you would quickly waste into nothing without some amusement. You seem the type to fight boredom the way most men run from the plague.” 

A glimmer in Haldon’s eye, then, the pleasure of finding a predator’s smile when one expected the sickly pout of the easily outraged. He smiled, slightly, and it felt to Burceau more truthful than the wide grins that had preceded it. “Indeed. In fact, if you can prevent me from dying of boredom this summer, then I shall owe you a great debt.”

“Then perhaps I will come calling,” de Burceau said, and received a pleased nod from Haldon in return. “And I can see that there are several young ladies on the other side of the room waiting for your attention, and so I will not take up too great a share of your company, Monsieur Haldon. But I do have one question for you.”

“Of course.” The wide smile again. No man could be as innocent as that smile looked, de Burceau thought.

“Why did you let me think that you composed your poem at home? Your opponent obviously did so, but to me it was readily apparent that your verses were indeed composed at the moment of speech.”

Haldon’s eyes went wide with nervousness for the most fleeting of times before his aplomb returned. He answered, “You are a perceptive man, Monsieur de Burceau. I look forward to seeing you at the next salon.” He gazed at de Burceau with great curiosity before heading toward his waiting friends.

Pierre de Burceau watched him as he left, as he charmed the young ladies waiting for him in the corner, and the rest of the night as he conversed with the rest of the attendees, impressing one and all with his easy nature. De Burceau had a feeling that he was going to enjoy dealing with Monsieur Haldon. Even as he kept thinking about the danger in that smile.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

A week passed before Pierre de Burceau saw Nicolas Haldon again. It was at another salon, and the host seemed quite smitten with Haldon, who responded with charm and grace but not quite reciprocity. For a moment, de Burceau found it a bit exasperating, all the attention heaped on Monsieur Haldon, most of which surely came from Haldon’s tendency to flatter. But still, he watched for his moment, when he might get him chance to speak again to one of the few men who have intrigued him since arriving in Paris. 

When the time came, it was actually Haldon who approached him, however, rescuing him from a deeply tedious conversation with a marquis who felt that de Burceau’s support of ‘irrigation’ was useless and obviously inspired by radical screeds of anti-monarchist philosophes. 

“You are against artificial irrigation?” Haldon had interrupted, “How wonderfully brave. Not many men in your position would come out against the technology that makes our queen’s lovely gardens possible.”

De Burceau tried not to smile as the marquis sputtered. 

“I meant irrigating land in the countryside, of course I didn’t mean --”

Haldon continued, “No, no need for a volte-face, dear sir, it is rare to find someone of your caliber willing to attack the decadence of this age.”

“I did not mean that at all – do not spread it around that I – I mean of course I meant in the countryside--”

Pierre, pretending to have mercy, gestured the marquis to speak with him to the side, promising him to have a word alone with Haldon and correct his terrible misconception, upon which the marquis thanked him heartily and – finally – left him alone.

“My gratitude,” Pierre said, as the men met in a hardy handshake. 

Nicolas laid a casual pat on Pierre’s forearm, then waist, and smiled. “It is wonderful to see you again. But you have been too busy to come calling, I take it.”

“Indeed, I am sorry,” Pierre said.

“I am hardly offended. You must have so many invitations since you are still the talk of the town, especially after you tidily resolved a conflict that could have easily been a scandal.”

Pierre grimaced. “I hesitate to ask how you heard of such a private matter.” Pierre’s face winced in a way that must have revealed to Nicolas that he had other matters of privacy, other connections, that he for now wished to remain unknown.

Nicolas laughed, “Do not fret, my friend, in Paris, it doesn’t matter if everyone knows your secret, as long as the gossip suggests that it is still indeed a secret. The deed is well-known, but no one _knows_ that the deed is common knowledge, and so the damage is minimal.”

Pierre sighed. “Yes, Parisian life. I miss the country sometimes.”

“But you are doing so well here,” Nicolas pointed out, “You have the favor of illustrious men and women, you are invited to the finest events on the social calendar, and you have such a reputation for fair dealing that everyone from the court to the guilds trusts you to broker their agreements.”

“You flatter me, my friend.”

“Is that so? Can you point out to me where I have spoken an untruth?”

Pierre laughed. “I am sure you could find a way to promise the moon without technically speaking a lie.”

“And now you flatter me. But truly, the whole city knows how much you have done, encouraging science, advocating reform, resolving conflicts both public and private. Amazing work for such a short time.”

“I simply like to keep occupied,” Pierre deferred. “It is good for a man’s character to stay busy.”

“Yes, I’m quite productive myself. I am perfecting the art of leisure, and it is no easy task. Lots of competition, you see.”

Pierre let out a chuckle and was about to respond, but Nicolas said, “I’m afraid it is late, Monsieur de Burceau. I must be leaving soon, but it was a pleasure to see you.” 

They shook hands again, affectionately, and Nicolas went to bid his farewell to the hostess and the most important guests. Pierre was a bit disappointed to see him go, having such a short chance to speak with him. But he supposed he had better join the nonsensical conversation next to him, lest the boring marquis found another chance to chatter at him.

A moment later, however, Pierre was running out, asking the footmen which way Haldon had gone. He caught up with Nicolas, who was walking slowly and jauntily, a few minutes later.

“Monsieur de Burceau,” he said with a smile, “A pleasure to see you again so soon.”

Pierre chose his next words carefully. He was sure of what Haldon did, but he was not sure of the reason. And in Paris, an accusation could easily turn into a duel. Of course, he did not like to think that this Haldon was cruel enough or unwise enough to challenge him. But it was not beyond these Parisians to do a misdeed for the sole purpose of eliciting an accusation, which could then be turned into a dangerous matter of honor. But he surely did not wish to engage in needless harm, and he especially did not wish to harm this Haldon without knowing the source of this sudden antagonism, and so he spoke carefully.

“I think, my dear Monsieur Haldon, that you may have accidentally carried my pocketwatch away.” 

Nicolas stared at him for a moment, and Pierre wondered what this moment would become. But then the man grinned and brought forth Pierre’s watch from his waistcoat pocket. He handed it to Pierre and said, “You are most welcome.”

“I am welcome? When it is you who took – rather, when you acci – when—” Pierre threw up his arms in annoyance, “In truth, Nicolas, you act as if you are proud of what you have done!”

Nicolas continued to smile, highly entertained. “You were miserable at that salon. Every time someone misquoted Montesquieu, it practically caused you pain. It was like watching a sheep being slaughtered by an incompetent butcher.”

Pierre let out a breath. This man, Haldon, was truly ridiculous. Thinking that stealing was doing him a favor. But at least his intent was not to hurt Pierre. “In this allegory, am I the butcher or the sheep?”

Nicolas laughed. “You are both, my friend. Your willpower holds you down on the butcher’s table and your true nature bleats to be released.”

“To go back to the country?”

“I hope not. To go to a finer field, perhaps.”

“I don’t mind that they misquote Montesquieu, you know.”

“Of course not,” Nicolas said with sarcasm, “That would make you haughty.”

Pierre managed to give Nicolas a highly amused scowl. “What I mean is that I wouldn’t mind if they merely misquoted. But they use him to argue for positions that Montesquieu would despise. It’s hypocritical.”

Nicolas seemed to find this rather charming for some reason. But Pierre continued, “Very well, I admit I was not enjoying the salon. But to steal my watch?”

“To save your watch from being desperately bored, and you along with it. Again, you are most welcome.”

Pierre quirked an eyebrow for a moment before bursting out laughing. He then offered to accompany him as he walked to his home nearby. Along the way they discussed – or, rather, they argued about -- all manner of topics. Nicolas preferred Italian painters for their passion and grandeur; Pierre preferred the realism of the Dutch. Nicolas thought highly of Ovid, advocating for his lyricism, and for his depiction of a world shaped by instability and constant transformation; Pierre argued the merits of Vergil, the perfection of his verse and the modern relevance of a tale of empire, of an epic that speaks of the responsibility to be an unwavering force of light in a cruel, chaotic world. Nicolas finds it amusing that Pierre imagines that these are the fruits of empire, as if France could do no wrong, and Nicolas of course has the temerity to say so. But later Nicolas is shocked when Pierre admits to preferring Shakespeare to Racine; even to a jaded misanthrope like Nicolas, this seems unbearably unpatriotic. But through their many disagreements, it was clear that each gentleman was enjoying the sharpness of the conversation, the parries and ripostes, the opposition and insistence. By the time Pierre said farewell at Nicolas’s doorstep – it was late, after all – they embraced and promised to converse again soon. As they parted, Nicolas gave a troubled look, conflicted almost, but it faded when Pierre smiled and waved his good bye.

As Nicolas walked into his abode, he heard a familiar voice as he saw a man come out of hiding. 

“Was that de Burceau?” Monsieur Matthieu Kelleur asked.

“Yes,” Nicolas answered.

“I heard laughter. I assume that means everything is going according to plan.”

“Perfectly,” Nicolas said, staring out the window. Pierre had already turned the corner, but Nicolas continued to look anyway.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Pierre saw Nicolas often after that. The man had some strange ideas, Pierre thought, but was full of joie de vivre, which was a welcome change from the turbid ramblings of the salon scene with their pitiable attempts to reclaim the glories of the old salons, those fortresses of creativity from a previous generation, presided over by women and men of the keenest wit. 

On one occasion, Pierre and Nicolas practiced archery at the training range. Nicolas was quite adept, much to Pierre’s surprise. 

“I am impressed, my friend. Are you equally skilled at the blade? Perhaps you would like to practice fencing with me next week, Nicolas?”

Nicolas laughed and gestured no. Nicolas explained that he did not like swords; he largely only carried one out of social expectation. 

“Besides, my dear Pierre, your reputation with a sword precedes you. In fact, I am quite sure your fencing renown is the sole reason you have not been challenged to a duel.”

Pierre looked disturbed. “I did not realize that I have offended anyone. Have I committed some wrong of which I am not aware?” He let off an arrow that impressively hit the ring mere inches from the center of the target.

Nicolas smiled. “You have achieved great success in many arenas, and you are immensely popular. I assure you that, for those of a jealous nature, that is more than enough to want your blood as a prize.”

Pierre waved off the compliment. “I am sure I will be the object of disdain soon enough. Once the salons decide that I am too unfashionable or not nearly witty enough.”

“I doubt one could find fault with your wit. But I suppose they might grow weary of your self-righteousness,” Nicolas said with a cheeky grin as he drew back the bowstring, releasing the arrow then to land right next to Pierre’s, just an inch closer to the center.

Pierre laughed good-naturedly, but then turned the matter serious again. “I must admit, this is one of the things I find very troubling about life in the city. I was warned of course that duels are not always for honorable reasons in Paris. I am glad no one has found me so offensive as of yet, but I am a bit surprised at how very common they are. And at how many end in death.”

“Killing in the name of honor is fashionable this season,” Nicolas remarked with disapproval in his voice, “I suppose next year it will be poisonings. Or perhaps treason -- just for the novelty, of course.” 

Pierre frowned. “Surely you do not think such things are comparable.” He let an arrow fly and it flew far from the target.

“Killing a man? To uphold one’s reputation? It is barbaric, I am afraid. There are other ways to thwart an attack on one’s fame.”

“To uphold one’s honor. Not merely one’s reputation. I care little for reputation, and they are hardly the same,” Pierre countered. 

“In Paris, a man is only as good as his reputation,” Nicolas corrected. “And what people say of your honor has little to do with the kind of man you are and everything to do with what they hope to gain from your demise.” Nicolas gave a wry smile. “But please do not be offended, my friend. I am sure the only men you have killed in a duel are enemies of the state and villains who kill orphans for pleasure. But as far as I can see, most duels are silly men finding excuses to murder each other.” 

Pierre stiffened. “You think that a death in a duel is like murder?”

Nicolas shrugged and shot an arrow toward the target; it landed just opposite his previous one. “Not legally, of course. But what kind of man is willing to engage in such a -” Nicolas stopped himself, realizing once again whom he was speaking to. “Again, Pierre, I am sure that you do not enter duels lightly.”

“Indeed I do not. But truly, Nicolas -- you do not think that a man has an obligation to defend his honor when challenged?”

Nicolas paused. “As I said, there is usually another way to counter an attack on one’s reputation.”

“I am not suggesting that you challenge others for no good reason, Nicolas. Particularly if you are as … imperfect with a blade as you claim. But I am certain that you will answer a challenge if one is made. You are an honorable man.”

Nicolas laughed a bit at that, against his will. 

“Do you find matters of honor funny?” Pierre asked, eyebrow raised. 

“Honor is among the most amusing of human inventions, wouldn’t you say?”

Pierre paused, trying to discern if Nicolas were simply being fashionably scandalous or if he truly did not believe that honor defined a person’s worth. Finally, he answered, “I do not.” 

“Then we shall agree to disagree,” Nicolas said with a smile.

Pierre sighed. “May I show you some fencing moves? Just in case.”

Nicolas smiled. “I do not dislike duels out of cowardice, my friend. I could always insist on pistols instead of swords, and I assure you I am a quite the accomplished shooter. But I simply don’t want to shoot anyone.”

Pierre looked relieved. “So if you are ever challenged --”

“Many men have tried to challenge me. Angry that I have made some small joke at their expense. Or accusing me of spreading false rumors about them, or of dalliances with their mistresses or lovers.”

“And I’m certain that those dalliances were merely all in the lovers’ head,” Pierre said with great sarcasm and a roll of his eyes.

Nicolas smirked. “Naturally.”

“And so you answered those challenges?”

“Not at all. I have no desire to kill, and even less desire to be killed. I simply mentioned some interesting facts about the man who challenged me to a few individuals in key social positions. Soon enough, it looked as if the accusation against me were utterly false and the man was thought ridiculous for challenging me, and he knew that he would look even more ridiculous if he injured or killed me. That is generally enough for a challenge to be withdrawn.”

Pierre put his bow on the ground. He looked disturbed, concerned even.

“Surely, you are testing me. This is some joke you are playing, Nicolas.” 

Nicolas placed one end of his own bow in the dirt, while he held the other end in his fingers, spinning it back and forth. Nicolas knew that he should assure Pierre that he was merely playing devil’s advocate – a clever argument for the sake of cleverness. It would not do for Pierre to be appalled by Nicolas’ philosophies. But somehow, Nicolas’ good sense left him; he found himself wishing, tragically, to speak his true thoughts more than he desired to weave his words into a snare.

“I am not. As I said, I do not believe in killing for some small-minded man’s pride and I certainly do not believe in dying for such a thing.” Nicolas looked down then, angry at himself for letting the conversation stray so far off course. He had often mocked the very concept of honor – it was always fashionable to mock the passions people are dying over – but he had never told anyone that it was not merely an arch amusement at the concept. He truly hated duels. 

Pierre of course looked deeply concerned for Nicolas’ moral state. “You would _lie_ to get out of a duel?” 

“Most men would prefer being lied to over being stabbed, I can assure you.”

“I know that that it is the trend to joke about the prevalence of lies. But surely you know that a man is only as good as his word.”

“I know that a dead man hardly ever keeps his word.”

“I wish you would stop making light, Nicolas.”

“It is a light topic, life and death,” Nicolas parried, “There is no substance to it at all; why else would there be plagues and murders and wars? The only thing more trivial, more utterly weightless, than life and death are matters of truth and lies.” 

“And now I know for certain you are not arguing from your heart. You wish to defeat me in a battle of words,” Pierre said.

“Perhaps. But I’m afraid that I am indeed one of those immoral Parisians you dread so much. I do not care for honor, my friend, and with few exceptions, I do not care for those who do.”

“But surely you do not think that lies and schemes are acceptable acts for a gentleman?”

“Again, anyone would prefer a lie to a blade.”

“Lies often lead to blades. And at least a duel is a fair contest, done in the open. You know your opponent and he knows you; you never have to wonder who is against you or not. The same cannot be said for gossip and schemes.”

“And what would the world be if no one could tell a lie? Civilization would fall apart, I assure you. But look at the duels that have taken place in the last few weeks – any of them could have been avoided with a few well-placed words. And surely you do not mean to survive the Parisian social scene by telling the truth. That will get you nowhere.”

“I believe that even amid lies, one can be an honest man. One must be cautious and tactful of course – honesty is not the same as indiscreetness. But my word is something precious and I will not give it up.”

Nicolas sighed. “I hope for your own sake you adjust your sense of honor to fit Parisian mores. Otherwise, you may indeed end up killing someone over nonsense.” Nicolas was surprised to find himself speaking from genuine worry – a period of adapting to the unspoken social hierarchy of ridicule and gossip was acceptable, but Pierre would surely come to an untimely end if he could not see Paris for what it was. Seeing Pierre tense, however, he added, “Again, I do not mean to insult you, my friend, I am certain you have never killed over an insult.”

“I have of course been forced to answer in matters of honor,” Pierre said, frowning. He seemed honestly surprised at Nicolas’ comment. 

“What sort of matter?” Nicolas asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

“A man disagreed with the changes in local governance that I argued for. He accused me of accepting bribes, which was utterly false. I had to defend my innocence.”

“There was no choice?”

“What was I to do? I am no coward,” Pierre said. For a moment he realized that he was also insulting Nicolas and began to explain, but Nicolas waved him off, unoffended. Nicolas had seen much danger, and he knew that he was no coward, and so others’ opinions of his courage meant little except for its effect on his social standing.

“Fine. An intelligent man such as yourself had no other options,” Nicolas said, his voice perfectly on the edge between understanding and questioning.

“I would have been merciful and allowed him to withdraw the challenge if he had apologized. Even after he slapped me in public. But he did not want to withdraw.” 

“And this man… he died?”

Pierre hesitated. “Yes. He lunged at me but left his right flank open.”

“And thus you defended your honor.”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” Nicolas said very little. He picked up the bow again and shot it, several inches off.

“And what you said? That you lie and gossip to avoid duels?”

Nicolas looked at him. “Pierre, I lie and gossip to get almost everything I want. You should try it some time.”

Pierre took Nicolas’ shoulders in his hands then, seeming almost to want to shake the man in fear. “You are better than that, Nicolas. You are much, much better than that. I say that as a friend, with only concern for you in mind.” 

Nicolas smiled and let out a breath as he stepped back. “I am sure that is the truth. After all, it is you who is speaking. But I suppose we have quite different ways of navigating the seas of public opinion.” He gave Pierre a friendly pat on the shoulder, as if such gestures meant something. Nicolas knew that he had said far too much, and that Pierre was surely having his doubts about him. And truthfully, Nicolas was surprised that Pierre had killed a man for such banal reasons; this feeling of surprise was most unwelcome, since Nicolas liked to fancy himself far too jaded to be disappointed in human faults. He knew that Pierre was a great swordsman, and he knew that great swordsmen generally become so by lethal experience, but somehow, in spending time with the man, he foolishly assumed that de Burceau might be the exception.

Pierre sighed then and placed his hands on Nicolas’ shoulders once again, this time in a gesture nearing an embrace.

“I see that you wish to speak of this no more this afternoon, my friend,” Pierre said, “But I cannot vow to never speak of it again. Your honor means much to me, even if it does not yet to you. But let us speak of lighter matters. I am going to the provinces next week, to visit my aunt’s country estate. Would you come with me? I think it will avail us both to get out of Paris for a while.”

Nicolas smiled, pleased and a bit surprised that his largely unintentional honesty (about dishonesty) had not driven Pierre away. “I agree completely, my friend.”

They continued their archery practice, then, avoiding such controversial matters. Nicolas was rapt by all that Pierre had to say, almost forgetting the other reason he was supposed to be pleased by Pierre’s attentions. It was easier, truth be told, to try and forget.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

_**Two months earlier….** _

_Matthieu Kelleur leaned back against the boiserie of Nicolas’ sitting room, his arms crossed and his face fixed in a scowl. “This man, Pierre de Burceau. He sickens me.”_

_Nicolas Haldon smiled, the perfect balance of sympathy and mockery. “You’re upset about the craftsman guilds. Who could blame you?”_

_“He has wronged you, too,” Monsieur Kelleur insisted. “If he had not brokered an agreement, there would have been a riot.”_

_“Yes, stealing amid a riot and blaming hungry peasants. What an intellectual challenge that poses,” Monsieur Haldon said with a sigh, slouching into the softness of his chair._

_Kelleur sneered. “I forget sometimes, Monsieur, that you are of such a delicate nature. In our schemes, you must not only be enriched but also entertained.”_

_“Ah, disdain. Shall I be offended? Or comforted by the familiarity?”_

_Kelleur walked forward slowly until he stood over the other man. “We haven’t the luxury of our usual antagonism, Nicolas. This de Burceau has been in Paris for only a month, and already everyone speaks his name in adoring tones.”_

_“Then perhaps he can be useful to us,” Nicolas said. The two often found ways of leveraging men of reputation for their own advantage._

_“Perhaps it would be useful to destroy him,” Matthieu countered._

_Nicolas studied his partner’s face. “He has gotten under your skin, Monsieur Kelleur.”_

_“Like an English wart.”_

_Nicolas chuckled. “He interfered with your plans to pit the guilds against each other. A minor obstacle. You’ll find another alliance to turn rotten, I’m quite sure.”_

_Kelleur growled, “It was appalling. He did not lay down a single threat or the smallest bribe. Instead, the guild leaders agreed to trust Monsieur de Burceau to enforce the agreement based on his word alone.”_

_“And this disturbs you?”_

_Kelleur answered wryly, “It makes me wonder what the world is coming to, when a man is taken at his word.”_

_Nicolas thought for a moment. “What kind of man garners such trust based on the reputation of a month in the city?”_

_“Precisely. They say he is the perfect gentleman, the epitome of noblesse oblige, with utter control over his baser impulses, disciplined like a Roman general. They say he is pure of heart and an honest man, like a nobleman from another time,” Kelleur said with disgust._

_“No wonder you despise him.”_

_“Nobody is that pure, Nicolas. Nobody.”_

_“You know how gossip is. Now he is honored, in another month, he’ll be thought tiresome and dreary. The man has only been in town a couple of weeks.”_

_“It’s not just the tradesman guilds, Nicolas. De Burceau has prevented several scandals, has spoken out against bribery and blackmail, has offered protection to servants who report the misdeeds of the more powerful, and has simply stuck his nose in where it does not belong all over the city. He is a threat to the way the city works. And especially to the way that we work the city.”_

_“And so you plan to kill him for making blackmail less fashionable? You know these trends are cyclical,” Nicolas said. He hoped that Kelleur was not planning to dispatch this de Burceau – Kelleur enjoyed duels to a disquieting degree, one of the few topics on which they had great conflict._

_“Of course not,” Kelleur grumbled, “His death would only make people revere his ideas even more.”_

_“Ah. So de Burceau is likely to best _you_ in a duel,” Nicolas concluded with a small smile. _

_Kelleur glared. “He is, as a matter of fact, said to be one of the most skilled fencers in the nation.”_

_Nicolas raised an eyebrow. This de Burceau was an experienced killer, then. And here Nicolas was starting to find this ‘gentle soul’ appealing._

_Kelleur continued, “We destroy his reputation. And then his ideas about blackmail undermining the nation will be seen as the nonsense that it is.”_

_“And you will also get to prove that nobody is as pure as they say de Burceau is,” Nicolas observed, “Which you will find deeply satisfying.”_

_Kelleur smiled. “Are you up for creating a scandal?”_

_Scandals were their specialty._

_“Why don’t _you_ do it?” Nicolas asked._

_“The man is known to resist temptation rather well – none of the courtesans, male or female, have gotten to know him at all, despite their attempts. He will require a more… aggressive seduction.”_

_Nicolas considered this. It did sound like a challenge, and he was indeed bored with all their petty little plots of late. But surely he could not give in so easily to the will of Kelleur, who was as much a competitor as an ally._

_“And why should I do this for you, Monsieur Kelleur?”_

_Kelleur smirked. “To prove that you can.”_

_“Why should I need proof? Some country gentleman here for a month, impressing the city with his wholesome ways. That doesn’t sound so interesting. He might go on his knees just to see what it’s like.”_

_“He’s smarter than you think, Nicolas, and more worldly, I assure you. But if you desire incentive, then shall we make it a wager?”_

_Nicolas smiled, wanly. “So it is now a matter of ‘honor’ that I seduce this man?”_

_“Indeed. I wager that you cannot seduce Monsieur de Burceau within six months’ time.”_

_“And if I succeed?”_

_“Then I shall let you select our schemes for the rest of the season.”_

_Nicolas looked unimpressed._

_Kelleur added, “And, I will avoid duels at any cost.”_

_Nicolas nodded his acceptance. This was a prize worth fighting for. “And if I lose?”_

_Kelleur sat on the arm of Nicolas’ chair, letting fall a long pause. Finally, he smiled lasciviously, and said, “If you lose, I can have you any way I want. Do anything to you.”_

_Nicolas narrowed his eyes. It was an astute wager on Kelleur’s part; to refuse would be to admit fear, and that was a mistake Nicolas was never willing to make._

_He nodded his assent._

_Kelleur smiled. “Excellent. But remember, it will not be enough to entice him. You must corrupt him. You must destroy that self-control he is so very proud of. And you must humiliate him so that the world knows that he was fool enough to be seduced by the notorious rake Monsieur Haldon.” Anyone could recover from having their dalliances discovered, but to be exposed as a fool – to be the object of ridicule -- could make a man powerless._

_“I understand the terms of our agreement, Monsieur Kelleur. But now it is time for you to return to your home. I have plans to attend to.”_

_Kelleur smirked again but stood up and headed toward the door. On his way out, he muttered, “Don’t forget, Nicolas, I never allow a wager to go unpaid.”_

__

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Pierre and Nicolas arrived at the estate of Pierre’s aunt – on his mother’s side, Pierre noted for some reason – the Duchesse d’Ellineville. They received warm welcomes and fine dinners and delightful conversations. Nicolas continued to flirt mercilessly with Pierre, but never quite managed to push beyond flirtation. He was starting to worry that he might be losing his touch.

Nevertheless, the two men spent the better part of the day together, enjoying each other’s minds if not each other’s bodies. Despite the fact that Pierre liked to keep himself busy, they had ample time for leisure. At first, Pierre insisted on taking Nicolas hunting until Nicolas’ foul disposition made it clear that he preferred less taxing activities. And so they rode, they swam, on rainy days they would play cards with the Duchesse and her other guests. Sometimes they simply went on long walks along the path that followed the stream. Pierre thought it was a waste to walk through the woods with no possibility of hunting, but he bent to Nicolas’ desires on this matter. He suspected, however, that Nicolas’ aversion to hunting was perhaps that he had a soft spot for foxes and other prey, and on one warm afternoon, he said so.

“I wonder if you empathize with the fox because you have similar personalities,” Pierre said with a smirk. 

“Because we are both crafty and much more clever than the other creatures?” Nicolas countered with a grin. 

“You are both adept at escaping tricky situations. I saw the way you ducked out of the sitting room before having to hear the Duke’s cousin talk about how philosophy is destroying the nation. I had to listen to the man for nearly an hour!”

Nicolas laughed, “I see why you brought me here. To provide entertainment. Your aunt is delightful and sharp as a whip, but some of her husband’s relatives…”

“Are insufferable,” Pierre agreed. 

“And why aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“A country gentleman with an overdeveloped sense of propriety? You should by all rights be insufferable as well. What’s your secret?” Nicolas teased. He was leaning back against a tree, his hands sloping into his pockets, entirely too nonchalant for Pierre’s tastes.

“And who said I enjoy propriety? Besides, look at you. A Parisian trying to walk a country lane in the latest fashions, imported silks from Florence and Rome? Not only insufferable but also ridiculous,” Pierre said with a laugh. “You look like one of those satirical etchings.”

Nicolas spread his coat open to reveal the ruffled shirt and blue silk waistcoat beneath, the waistcoat cutting a pleasing angle at the man’s waist. “I believe I look splendid. Perhaps you would allow me to assist you with your own wardrobe?” he said with a smile, fully expecting a refusal.

“Stay away from my clothing, Nicolas.”

Nicolas impishly scurried to adjust the casual ruffles at the top of Pierre’s shirt, loose angled cloth that formed a vee down Pierre’s chest. When Pierre tried to stop him, Nicolas slapped his hand away, at which point Pierre guffawed and wrestled Nicolas to the ground. 

“The battle is won,” Pierre announced, laughing as he held Nicolas gently down on the path, “My attire is still the territory of France!”

Nicolas laughed and managed to free an arm to fix the collar of Pierre’s coat. “This is not a war, Pierre. Fashion is progress, and you can’t fight progress.”

Pierre chuckled again and wrestled with Nicolas a bit more, each man acquiring a few small victories before Pierre pinned him to the ground, his body weight pressing down on him as their faces were merely inches from each other.

For a moment they were perfectly still. The sound of their breathing seemed loud and heavy in their ears. Their game had been an exertion, and Nicolas watched as a bead of sweat, glistening in the softened afternoon light, trailed down Pierre’s brow until it fell, cool and startling, on Nicolas’ face, just above his upper lip. 

“You see what I mean about the country?” Pierre finally spoke, still gasping. “One never has such fun in the city. It would cause a scandal.” 

He grinned appreciatively as he stood up, seeming to let his gaze linger on Nicolas’ body as it lay supine before him. He held out a hand to assist Nicolas and the two men continued on their way, their conversation a bit subdued after that. They both blamed their quietness on the rising afternoon heat. But Pierre noticed that Nicolas seemed suddenly quite preoccupied.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The time in the countryside was passing like a blur to Nicolas Haldon. He had not meant to stay for so many weeks. He kept gathering information on Pierre, though little of it would be of use for schemes. Many days, he only thought about his wager with Kelleur occasionally, preferring instead to enjoy himself, and to enjoy the company.

He had learned much about Pierre in this time. For one thing, Pierre was constantly dragging him along as he engaged in various improvement projects in the area. It was a great bore. Sometimes, however, there was a problem that required a deft solution, a clever fix, and Nicolas was impressed to see Pierre’s acumen in those instances. He was also impressed that Pierre was eager to solicit Nicolas’ advice on these matters as well; the men were equal of mind, though opposite in demeanor, and Pierre seemed to delight in rather than resent those times when Nicolas’ intellect outshone his own. 

He was learning other things about Pierre as well. The man, though rather rigid in his beliefs, was far from naïve, and Nicolas could see that the man could deal with less than honorable men with any number of approaches, especially when Pierre’s aunt sent him to handle some local dispute or tension. He was impressed with Pierre’s mind, even as he grew weary of Pierre insisting that Nicolas, deep in his heart, surely liked helping all of these fine gentlemen and ladies. 

They continued their walks and their swims and their hours-long conversations, and Pierre never hesitated to embrace him with affection or to roughhouse with him as if they were foolish boys who didn’t yet know where all that closeness, all that congress of skin and muscle, could lead. There was an openness to this man that was, despite Nicolas’ every attempt to find evidence otherwise, entirely genuine. In Pierre was the strangest combination of honor and innocence with astuteness and pragmatism. Nicolas was finding him somewhat of a challenging riddle.

It was perhaps for this reason that Nicolas had let slip so many opportunities. He was often forward with Pierre, coming at him with double entendres, lascivious looks, friendly smacks on the rear that were promptly returned. There were times when he would say things that would make a Venetian courtesan blush, and Pierre was surely not dull enough to imagine Nicolas meant anything other than what he did, but Pierre was never embarrassed. He simply smiled as if he were certain that Nicolas was only saying these things for the pleasure of seeing Pierre look scandalized.

There were times, however, when Nicolas was quite sure that there was more than amusement in Pierre’s eyes. When they stared, darkened, at Nicolas’ lips, at Nicolas’ torso. Nicolas would step closer to him in those moments, angle his face up to his, sensing the fraught lines of desire that traversed between them. 

But then Nicolas would step back, change the subject.

Nicolas still wasn’t sure why this kept happening. Though he commonly blamed the country air for making his wits dull. 

And so as the time passed, he savored these many moments with Pierre. But there was another delightful surprise in the country, since Nicolas found that Pierre was not the only sharp-witted friend at the estate. Nicolas was also quite enchanted by the Duchesse, and she apparently by him. She had a directness to her, tempered by her experience.

When Nicolas had been there many weeks, as the Duchesse and Nicolas were alone in the game room playing cards, she said to him, “My nephew is a handsome man, isn’t he?” 

“Indeed, Pierre is admirable in many ways,” Nicolas said sincerely. 

“And do you plan to do anything about it?” she inquired, and a less sophisticated gentleman would not notice that she had brought up the topic of seduction at all.

“I would never wish to abuse your hospitality, your grace,” Nicolas answered. 

“But that was not my inquiry.” Her smile was kind even as she was far from naïve.

“I… am not certain, I must admit. Pierre does not seem to be one to… take serious matters lightly.”

“Indeed he is not. And is that what you are seeking? Something light? Are you looking merely for a confection?”

“Pardon my profaneness, but I believe I wish the whole meal,” Nicolas admitted, embarrassed. Something about the woman brought out his honesty.

“Then you will pardon me for correcting you. But you seem to believe that a man of honor is the same as a monk, and I do not believe that to be the case. And so if your intentions are noble, I want to assure that I enjoy having you as a guest and would heartily welcome your presence for any length of time.”

“Thank you,” Nicolas said, sincerely, wondering if her words could even possibly mean what he believed they did.

She nodded graciously, his cue to allow her to enjoy her room alone, and he kissed her hand as he left. When he neared the door, she said, “And don’t forget to take your letter. It arrived today – it’s right there on the table.”

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Nicolas waited until he was alone in his room to read the letter. There was no return address, but he recognized Kelleur’s handwriting on the envelope.

_Dear Nicolas,_

_I am writing to save your life and your reputation._

_You see, I know you better than you know yourself. And seeing that you have been in that putrid little town for far too long, I can only assume that you are contemplating giving in to your weakness. Nothing could be more disastrous._

_Do not be swayed by de Burceau. When he sees the man you are, he will despise you. He may try to have you executed, or just do it himself with that infamous blade of his. And he will certainly destroy your reputation, regardless of the threats we pose against him._

_Do not forget our wager, Nicolas. Do not forget why you are there._

_M._

 

Nicolas felt a pit in his stomach, a sharper iteration of the jabbing he felt in every encounter with Pierre. Something gnawing at him, never letting him quite forget that no matter how much he enjoyed Pierre’s company, he was there to betray them. This was the underpinning, the bass clef of his time with Pierre that made laced even the most pleasant excursions with conflict and dread.

Someday soon Pierre would hate him and Nicolas would be ripe for it. 

It’s not that Nicolas had forgotten now that he was away from Paris. It’s that the uncertainty wasn’t as piercing in the country, without Kelleur to remind him of their sickening deal every day. 

He felt a sudden impulse to return to the city. Alone. He gathered his things and left a brief note for the Duchesse on his dresser and went to borrow a horse from the stables. He did not bother with a carriage and headed toward the city, even though it was already the evening, taking the narrower, winding paths so he would be nearly certain not to be found even if Pierre tried to pursue. The horse wanted to go fast, and Nicolas let it, keeping his head down in the wind and hoping to gain distance.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

It was almost dark when Nicolas turned a corner to see Pierre waiting for him atop his steed, looking like an impassable Spartan force in the middle of the path. Nicolas slowed and stopped his horse as he gaped. 

“How?” Nicolas asked.

“I know how you think. And I know these paths like the back of my hand. Now, my turn for a question. Why?”

“I left a note.”

“You left an excuse, undoubtedly false,” Pierre said as he dismounted. Nicolas dismounted too, against his better judgment.

“I need to return to the city.”

“Why?”

“Urgent business.”

“What?”

“I cannot answer your question, Pierre! Now please get out of the path.”

“Were you not enjoying yourself?”

“Of course I was.”

Pierre hesitated. “Was it because I was … forward?”

Nicolas paused, almost wanting to laugh if it weren’t all so wrong. Surely Pierre did not think his mild flirtations were overly forward, especially when Nicolas’ were so much more direct. “No. I can assure you, I would have refused you nothing.” He wasn’t sure why he was saying this; he must be the greatest fool to say this. “What I mean is, your friendship is the reason I stayed so long.”

“Then if we are friends, you must stay. Or you must tell me what your troubles are so that we can address them together.”

Nicolas closed his eyes. That sinking feeling in his gut again. “You are a true friend, Pierre. But…”

“It is nearly dark, Nicolas,” Pierre said, pleading almost, and the edge in his voice made Nicolas weak in his legs, “This is no time for a journey. Come back. You can leave in the morning if that is still your choice. Give me one night to convince you to stay. After everything, you cannot give me one more night?”

For all of Nicolas’ skill with words, for all of his brilliant trickery, he had no defenses against Pierre, the man’s sincerity like a weapon Nicolas was not able to parry. He felt as if he should vomit, as if he should run, as if he should knock Pierre over and steal his horse and never leave Paris again. Instead, somehow, he closed his eyes and nodded.

“Good,” Pierre said, eyes joyful. “Let us hurry home.”

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

They arrive at the estate’s stables well after dark, tired and sweaty and with unanswered questions weighing on them both. Nicolas is expecting these questions to fly at him soon.

Instead, after they’ve put the horses in their stalls, Pierre grabs Nicolas by the hips and kisses him.

It is far, far better than Nicolas expects. 

Pierre steps back, stares into Nicolas’ eyes as if to discover if Nicolas wants this from him. 

Nicolas answers by grabbing the collar of Pierre’s shirt and pulling him back to him. He kisses Pierre harder, his tongue pressing into Pierre’s lips, then deeper, savoring Pierre’s mouth as he lets out a deep guttural moan.

Pierre practically drags Nicolas to a stack of fresh clean hay and they fall into it, laughing like schoolboys until Pierre pulls off Nicolas’ coat and starts to unbutton Nicolas’ waistcoat and shirt, slowly kissing his neck and jawline.

When Nicolas chest and stomach are bare, framed by the ivory-colored ruffles strewn messily on either side of his torso, Pierre sits up. He looks down admiringly, like he has never seen anything so beautiful. He smiles at Nicolas and it’s full of gratitude.

Nicolas tries to smile back. But that pit in his stomach again.

Pierre leans down to kiss his lips. It’s warm and forceful, it can be nothing but a claim. Nicolas opens up to it, drinks it. Pierre moves his lips to Nicolas’ ear then, sucking lightly and with a nibble, until he whispers, breath hot against his skin, “I adore you, Nicolas.” He moves back to kiss Nicolas’ lips again.

Nicolas turns away.

Pierre is confused, tries again.

Nicolas closes his eyes and waits for Pierre to back up. 

When he does, he looks worried. “Have I done something wrong? Have I been too forceful?”

“No,” Nicolas says, eyeing the stable door, wanting to run. “Not at all.”

“What then?” 

The pit in the gut. Telling Nicolas that this was his last chance to do the honorable thing, and at the moment he doesn’t even remember that he is a fool to care for such things. 

He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then, finally, Nicolas says, “I’ve decided that some things are better left uncorrupted.” A film of bitterness clings to his voice, and he knows it won’t go unnoticed. He looks away from Pierre’s face.

For a moment, Pierre is confused. But then he gets that look of determination he sometimes has. He looks at Nicolas, then down to the bulge in Nicolas’ pants, and he seems to discern something.

“Oh,” Pierre said, with exaggerated disappointment. “I see you’re one of those.”

“One of what?”

“One of those whose ideas would shock everyone and whose actions would shock no one.”

Nicolas turns back to him, eyes narrowed. It is a cunning move, Nicolas knows. To insult Nicolas in this way. He would laugh if a man called him a coward, a criminal, a sexual deviant, a rogue. But to call the infamous Monsieur Haldon a prude… it is unthinkable. For once, Nicolas forgets that the measurement of a man’s worth is only a game; he has never heard anything so offensive to his pride. 

He is, in a word, _outraged_. 

His eyes darken and he pulls Pierre down to him with surprising force. Their next kiss is a clash, a battle instead of a seduction, and this time neither man succumbs to the other. Nicolas braces against the floor with one arm and rolls them over so Pierre is on his back, Nicolas astride him, his hindquarters hovering just over Pierre’s manhood. 

Nicolas gives him a smirk as he grinds downward. “I hope that the country gentleman is not scandalized by a Parisian’s penchants.”

Pierre moans but manages a riposte. “I can assure you, we are not so innocent in the country as you believe,” he says as he gropes the bulge in Nicolas’ pants.

Nicolas lets out a breath and bites his lower lip, and this seems to make Pierre desire him more, brings out an animality in Pierre that Nicolas now realizes he has long been waiting to see. 

Nicolas smiles and moves backward, deciding to make Pierre, for once, give chase. “Monsieur, now is the time. If you want me, you must take me.”

Pierre’s eyes turn dark. For a moment he is perfectly still.

Then Nicolas is thrown into the soft hay yet again, Pierre’s hands working roughly at the ties of Nicolas’ pants. In return, Nicolas pulls off Pierre’s coats, tears at his shirt until it lies ragged on his arms and shoulders. There is a speed to their movements, but it does not stop them from noticing the incidental pleasure, the chance to kiss here and bite there as they do their work. Nicolas almost comes to a halt when Pierre starts to suck at Nicolas birthmark, halfway up his inner thigh, just hard enough to be painful.

As Nicolas tenses, Pierre stops and looks up, sweating and beautiful and desperate to have him. 

“Harder,” Nicolas orders, “Bruise me.”

Pierre grins in anticipation and licks his lips before sucking a bruise onto Nicolas’ thigh, with just enough teeth to make Nicolas tremble. He grips Pierre’s hair and _tugs_ from the pain of it, but Pierre seems to think this is direction and he pulls Nicolas’ cock from his pants and begins to suck the tip.

Soon Pierre is licking hard circles around Nicolas’ cock, using his hand to twist the shaft one way as his tongue twists the head the other. Nicolas moans and he feels helpless somehow, and he wonders how it has come to this. He is the greatest rogue in Paris, he can usually plan his next scheme, silently recite an aria from memory, and think of his next witty comment while being sucked, and yet somehow, the anticipation, the release of months of fear and need, has overwhelmed him. There is nothing in his mind but the sight of Pierre’s lips on him and the sensations that threaten his sense. 

It was not supposed to go this way, he thinks. Nicolas was supposed to leave _Pierre_ breathless and overcome, dazed with the sensations of it all. Instead…

He realizes that Pierre is pulling Nicolas’ pants off, and so he helps. He kisses Pierre roughly again, attempting to wrest control of this congress, control of himself. 

Pierre licks his fingers and reaches behind Nicolas and slides one in. Nicolas buries his face in the crook of Pierre’s neck and sucks his own bruise to mark the other man.

Pierre presses a second finger at the rim of Nicolas’ entrance. He hesitates, the second finger caressing the entrance until Nicolas bites down on Pierre’s shoulder and with a cry from both of them, the second finger slips in. They stay like that for a long while, Pierre moving his fingers inside of Nicolas as they kiss each other everywhere they can reach without pulling apart, as their free hands grip and rub and tease. Finally, Pierre pulls his fingers out.

Nicolas expects a third finger at least, and maybe more. But Pierre’s hands are on his chest, suddenly gentle, pushing him slowly back and then raising Nicolas legs up and apart to put them on Pierre’s shoulders.

Nicolas honestly has no idea what is going on.

He sees Pierre’s face move downward, is thrilled Pierre is going to suck him again.

Instead, he feels Pierre’s tongue at his entrance, its soft wetness, its lushness pressing into him.

For a second all Nicolas can think is that it’s an utter embarrassment that a man from the country has a lewder repertoire than he does. 

He is more than slightly impressed. 

Then the tongue pushes in, the tongue is ravishing Nicolas, and Nicolas can think of nothing else at all. It pushes in and out, a torture of soft, supple motion, and then Pierre pushes a finger alongside his tongue, filling him up, pressing at his spot again and again. Nicolas hears himself moaning, hears words such as “please” leave his lips, and in a brief moment of cogency, he wonders if he has lost himself completely. 

The tension builds as Pierre’s tongue penetrates him, as Pierre’s hand strokes Nicolas’ cock slowly, too slowly, controlling it utterly. Just before Nicolas is sure he can wait no longer, Pierre stops, moves away, and Nicolas groans with the absence.

But then Pierre moves up to Nicolas’ face, kisses him on the lips, his tongue going deep into his mouth. Nicolas can taste himself on Pierre’s tongue, can taste the desire, the appetite Pierre has for him, and Nicolas nearly shudders from how deliciously _filthy_ it is.

Pierre steps back then and lines himself up to enter Nicolas, pinning one of Nicolas’ legs to his chest. He breaches him and pushes inward, a single slow plunge, and Nicolas feels all of him, feels the fullness pushing at him in every direction. 

Soon, Pierre starts to move, sliding in and out, looking at Nicolas’ face the entire time. The physical sensations are overwhelming but not painful. But Pierre’s stare is too much, it makes it all seem wrong somehow, and he turns his head to look at the stable wall. He tries to concentrate on his body, on the fullness and motion, and somehow in the intensity of his focus he forgets to shield his emotions, he forgets to fix the mask to his face.

He is a fool to forget. 

Pierre stops, and Nicolas realizes at once that he has been betrayed by his own weakness. 

“Nicolas. Are you --”

“I was enjoying myself until you stopped,” Nicolas answers, trying and failing to match his verbal bravado with a smile.

“Are you – you look – forgive me, my dear Nicolas, but are you afraid?”

Nicolas stares up at Pierre’s piercing gaze, at Pierre’s lips, thinned with worry. He knows that the answer to this question is no. The answer is _always_ no. The answer is a bon mot, an insult, a deflect, but always, always a form of no.

“Yes,” Nicolas gasps and the terror of it takes his breath away.

“Of me?”

“No. No. Of course not.”

Pierre sighs and runs a hand, slow and soft, up and down Nicolas’ chest. As if he could soothe a heart with a light hum. “Tell me,” he whispers, the perfect balance of an order and a plea.

This would be the time for improvisation. This would be the time for a brilliant story to materialize in Nicolas’ head. 

Instead he retreats. Like a true coward, like a child, like a man who knows nothing. 

He covers his face with his hand. 

It is practically an admission of guilt and he knows it.

What is happening to him?

A tug, then, Pierre’s hands forcing Nicolas’ hand away, stripping away Nicolas’ protection from Pierre’s eyes. It is the closest thing to violence Nicolas has felt at Pierre’s hands.

Pierre is still inside of him, his hands holding down Nicolas’ hands, and his gaze, his terrible gaze, is boring into him, full of concern, full of desire, full of things that shouldn’t affect Nicolas, things that shouldn’t mean anything at all. 

Pierre is looking at Nicolas like nothing in the world has ever meant more to him. 

Nicolas has seen this look before. It usually means a success. It means that Nicolas has won a victory. 

Today it means his collapse.

“I have lied to you, Pierre.” He has never admitted this to anyone. Never admitted fear, never admitted guilt.

Pierre looks pained. “About – about wanting us to – no. _No._ I do not believe you.”

“I befriended you in order to ruin you Pierre.” Nicolas has nothing, no mind, no wit. What kind of fool reveals such a secret to a man holding him down, a man who could do anything to him?

It is a long moment as Pierre contemplates this. Nicolas tries desperately not to wince at what is coming.

It is a question. “And tonight? Is this to ruin me?”

Nicolas laughs at the question, at the absurdity of it, but somehow it comes out as moan. “No.” _This night is to ruin **me**_ , Nicolas thinks.

“What is your grievance with me?” Pierre asks. He looks lost, Nicolas realizes. He cannot imagine that Nicolas would destroy him for a bit of fun.

“It was a wager,” Nicolas chokes out, his eyes wet, against his will. It feels like every word he speaks, every act of his body, is against his will. He catches his breath, a shaky breath hiding a near-sob, and he moves to pull away from Pierre. 

Pierre holds him there. 

Nicolas looks up, expecting to see rage. Instead, Pierre … is stunned. Pierre never thought such a thing possible. But Nicolas sees him thinking, sees him looking at Nicolas and making a decision. Sees the astonishment on his face slowly turn to resolve.

His voice is not angry but there is a tremble to it. “You will cancel the wager, Nicolas. I will help you if you cannot. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Nicolas feels as if he is falling. 

“And you will answer truthfully: do you want to stay with me?”

“…Yes.” Nicolas’ voice breaks. He is certain this is a torture before Pierre has his revenge.

“Swear it. Swear on your honor.”

“Surely that would mean nothing to you,” Nicolas says, thinking himself mocked.

Pierre’s face is all sincerity. “If you swear on your honor, Nicolas, I will believe you.”

Nicolas gapes at him. He does not understand this, does not understand how he can constantly be surprised by an honest man. But he assents. “I vow on my honor that I have never wanted anything more than to be with you. For our friendship to outlast what I have done to you.”

He swallows, waiting, as Pierre gazes down at him, trying to read Nicolas’ expression. Finally, Pierre places his thumb gently on Nicolas’ lip, caressing it. He moves his hand up to the side of Nicolas head and weaves his fingers lightly through Nicolas’ sweat-drenched hair. And he smiles.

“Then the past is the past, my dear friend,” he says, and Nicolas can see the strength behind it, the hope and certainty in Pierre’s eyes. 

Nicolas lets out a noise. Someone looking upon them might even think it crying. If Nicolas were watching someone else lose themselves so absurdly to something so petty, so trivial, as forgiveness, he would surely laugh, make a joke at their expense. 

But Pierre leans down to kiss him, softly. He starts to pull out but Nicolas grabs his arm.

“Continue,” Nicolas says, “Please.” He is panting still.

Pierre looks moved, filled with emotion at such a simple request. But he carefully – so carefully – moves again, slowly continuing until he is at his previous rhythm. He never stops looking at Nicolas’ face and Nicolas can’t bear to deny him the sight.

Eventually he moves faster, his hips moving in circular motions, then in swift jerks, until he comes inside of Nicolas, the heat of it a salve. 

After, he pulls at Nicolas’ cock until he comes as well, spilling onto his own stomach. 

Nicolas feels spent, lost, blissful, destroyed. He is barely able to piece together his good sense when he loses it yet again as he sees Pierre lick Nicolas’ white off of his stomach. He licks his cock clean as well and then lays kisses down Nicolas’ thigh, soft and excruciating on his overly sensitive skin. And Nicolas watches, rapt, as Pierre lets the come spill from his mouth to Nicolas’ inner thigh, right atop the bruise he had left earlier in the night. 

“You are indeed full of surprises,” Nicolas manages to say.

Pierre laughs, unashamed of his appetites. “I wouldn’t want you to become bored,” he teases, voice full of kindness.

“Never.” He smiles weakly at Pierre, and Pierre takes him in his arms. They lie together in a sweaty heap, blissful and exhausted. As they drift into sleep, Nicolas realizes just how awry his plan has gone. He thought to strip away Pierre’s self-control, to make him need desperately. He planned to make Pierre ridiculous. Instead, Pierre has done all of these things to him. 

It is a miserable failure. And the worst part is, Nicolas can’t even bring himself to regret it.

\--------

 

In the morning, the sun shines into the stable and the two men shift in each other’s arms as they wake. 

“So?” Pierre says.

“What?” Nicolas asks, rubbing his eyes.

“Will you stay?” Pierre asks, and the need in his voice makes Nicolas lean over to kiss him.

“If you still want me to,” Nicolas says, surprising himself with the answer.

Pierre kisses him again, this time hard and possessive. “Forever.”

They shift again, Nicolas resting his head on Pierre’s shoulder as their arms encircle each other. 

After a few blissful moments, Nicolas reluctantly says, “I suppose you want to hear the rest.”

“Mm,” Pierre assents, seeming amused that Nicolas was still trying to put it off.

Nicolas tells him. The wager, Kelleur’s reasons, the price if he lost, even his long history of misdeeds with Kelleur. He waits for Pierre to look scandalized, outraged, unforgiving, but Pierre seems to take in each new piece of information as if it were a puzzle piece he had been looking for.

Finally, Nicolas asks, “Does this change things?” Only a fool would expect a no.

“No. But I am going to ask you do something, Nicolas.”

“Of course.”

“I am going to ask you not to see Monsieur Kelleur again.”

Nicolas sighs. “I would prefer that. But he will surely come to collect his wager.”

Pierre frowns. “But you did indeed seduce me.”

“I believe it was the opposite,” Nicolas laughs, “And besides, the bet was to make you ridiculous. To corrupt you. And I would think that you would want me to keep my word. Even if it is… repulsive.”

Pierre hesitates. “Perhaps there is some flexibility when keeping one’s word to scoundrels after all,” he says and Nicolas laughs. 

“Truly, though, Nicolas, I will write to relatives in Paris and make sure that Kelleur has so little standing in Paris he will have to leave the city. Or the country.” 

“But you will not tell them about me?”

“No.”

A pleased smirk spreads across Nicolas’ face. “Surely you will not lie?”

“I will tell the truth in a way that leaves certain facts discreet,” Pierre counters with a smile.

“And you will not challenge him to a duel?” 

“Do you want me to?”

Nicolas sighs. “No. Not that the man doesn’t deserve it. But…”

“But it is not what you want. And so out of respect for you, I will handle this … in your manner.”

Nicolas grins. “Thank you. And I am impressed with your plan to exile Kelleur. I think I must have underestimated your ability to negotiate Parisian society. But please be careful; Kelleur has blackmail material on many people and I would hate for your relatives to be hurt by one of his powerful allies.”

“My relatives are of high rank,” Pierre assures him, and Nicolas senses that there is more for Pierre to tell. After a bit of poking, Pierre finally reveals the relation that he usually keeps secret, not wanting to trade undeservedly on the name of his grandfather’s younger sister.

“Wait, _you’re_ ‘little Pierre’? The one she always talks about?”

“I can’t believe she still calls me that.”

Nicolas lets out a chuckle. “I guess you have the luxury of being an honest man when you’re the queen’s favorite nephew,” he says, a teaspoon of resentment covered by gallon of amusement. “But truly, I do not want your assistance if it will … dishonor you.”

“I assure you, I will not allow that. Both my honor and yours will be protected with this plan.”

“With this scheme,” Nicolas cannot help but point out.

Pierre gives a reluctant smile as he lets out a long sigh. “I’m not sure when you managed it, my dear Nicolas, but along the way I have come to find your methods….”

“A necessary evil?”

“An annoyance more than an obscenity.”

“Faint praise if I’ve ever heard it,” Nicolas says with a smile.

“And you? What made you choose to stay with me? To tell me these things? And I know they are the truth because whenever you speak the truth you look as if someone is tearing at your toenail.”

Nicolas laughs loudly. “Fine. You have become a bit more supple, shall we say, on matters of honor. I am a bit more … robust on matters of honesty. But with men such as us, you are aware that this may not be the end of our conflicts?”

“If you are willing to take the risk, then I am as well. And of course I have faith that you can change your ways.”

“Pierre, there I some things I will leave behind, but I am not certain that I will become someone new.”

Pierre frowns, realizing his presumption. “We have much time to spend together, my friend. We will learn to fit together, both of us.”

Nicolas nods and smiles. A promise from Pierre felt solid, impermeable. “I’m not worried,” Nicolas says, sliding his head to rest on Pierre’s chest, hearing the steady heartbeat beneath the cheek. He closes his eyes and feels an easiness sweep through him as he realizes that for the first time since meeting Pierre, it is the truth; he isn’t worried at all. 

(end)


End file.
